


Ink

by Jennie_D



Series: Becoming New [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tattooed Jon, Tattooed Tormund, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform, a little bit of angst in part 1, free folk, little bit of sex in parts 3 and 4, tattoos are great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 04:56:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: Jon caught sight of a series of dark blue lines inked on Tormund’s shoulder. The lines were somehow both strong and delicate, radiating outward in a pattern that brought to mind the spokes of a wheel.Tormund noticed him looking and chuckled.“Never seen these before, little crow?”





	1. Chapter 1

The camp was filled with the soft sounds of sleep when Jon snuck away to the hot springs.

He did this often, late at night. Though the warmth of Tormund and Ghost around him often soothed him to peaceful slumber, there were still night Jon spent wide awake, trying to escape dreams of things he’d rather forget.

And when they camped near caves, the darkness past midnight offered Jon an opportunity; the ability to bathe alone. He’d learned long ago that the Free Folk, when the temperature allowed for it, had very few qualms about nudity. But Jon still found himself uncomfortable. He was unable to see all these naked people, unable to let _them_ see _him_, without desperately wishing himself elsewhere.

On the one hand, this was not surprising. Jon had been raised to believe that showing so much of yourself was inappropriate at best, wicked at worst. After boyhood, Septa Mordane had driven that lesson into Jon and his siblings near constantly. Theon had tried to teach them otherwise but well...his lessons mostly consisted of trips to the brothel, and Jon had not much cared for those. For Jon had been desperate not to be wicked, to instead be upright and honorable and everything he was told bastards could never be.

But Jon was no longer a boy. Hadn't been that boy for a long time.

And oddly, he remembered it being a bit easier before. The last time Jon had run with the Free Folk, he’d initially been shocked with their ease around each other, with how unashamed they were of their bodies. But eventually, he’d joined in. He had grown accustomed to it, had slowly started to lose the modesty he had been raised with, slowly started to forget his fear of being labeled a wicked bastard. Perhaps that was because the Free Folk had no bastards. Perhaps it was because in a way he’d been acting a spy, playing the role of a deviant turned Crow.

But most likely, it was because of Ygritte. In those moments with her, when things seemed free and easy and he could pretend they'd be together forever, nakedness had seemed a small thing. He’d let himself bathe, let himself be seen. He remembered once he and Ygritte had even fucked in full view of the camp, only thin furs covering them. Tormund had seen them and laughed, called them a pair of rutting dogs, said he would pour cold water over them if they did not hurry and prepare for the day.

Jon wondered, now, how he had been able to be so brazen. Wondered how he had lost that sense of freedom. He suspected it was somewhere between Ygritte dying in his arms and his own death in the snow, between being given a crown and seeing a city burn. He lost it when he lost his honor, his love, his family. In some ways, he did not want the Free Folk to see this ruined thing. To gawk at his torso ravaged with scars that, even now, stood out angry and red. As if he’d been stabbed to death but weeks ago, not years.

So Jon was alone. And he let the warmth and solitude soothe him, let them bring his mind away from thoughts of kings. He closed his eyes and tried to feel nothing but the water bubbling on his skin.

But then he heard footsteps echoing on stone.

His eyes shot open and he looked around for his clothes, but Tormund entered mere moments later.

Jon relaxed a bit. He still was not _completely_ comfortable around Tormund naked. But Tormund had seen him covered in blood in the middle of battle, had seen his corpse turn pale after death, had seen Jon scream and thrash after nightmares seized him and held tight. Tormund already knew who Jon was, what he was. And Tormund, for reasons Jon could not understand, was still here.

“Ah, little crow, there you are. Was worried you’d been stolen away from me in the night.” Tormund’s smile was wide, infectious. Jon felt his melancholy melting away at the sight of it.

He laughed a little. “You worried some bride will come and take me? Not sure who’d have me at this point.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, little crow. You’re nowhere near an old man yet.”

Tormund looked at Jon in the water. Subconsciously, Jon’s hands went between his legs, covering himself. He worried for a moment Tormund would tease him for it, but the man didn’t comment.

Instead, his hands went to the edge of his furs.

“Do you mind if I join you, little crow? I’ll leave you alone if you wish, but some time in the spring might help me get to sleep.”

Jon stiffened a bit, but Tormund was waiting, patiently, kindly. He was not being insistent or brash. And when Jon didn’t respond after a moment, he turned, as if to leave.

“I’ll see you in the tent then, but when you get back-”

“Wait,” Jon called. Tormund stopped, looked into Jon’s eyes.

Truthfully, a little company sounded nice. _Tormund’s_ company sounded nice.

“I wouldn’t mind some conversation, if you wanted to stay and soak a bit.”

Tormund smiled, softer this time, and started to undress. It occurred to Jon that, despite their years of friendship, he’d somehow never seen Tormund in any state of nakedness. Not even with his shirt removed. Tormund seemed to be permanently bundled in wild furs.

But now those furs were coming off, and under them were a muscled chest and arms, strong legs, and, Jon blushed to note, a truly enormous cock buried in a thicket of red hair.

_No wonder he found mine small._ Jon thought as he desperately tried to look elsewhere.

Then Jon caught sight of a series of dark blue lines on Tormund’s shoulder. The lines were somehow both strong and delicate, radiating outward in a pattern that brought to mind the spokes of a wheel.

Jon stared at them as Tormund lowered himself into the water. Tormund noticed him looking and chuckled.

“Never seen these before, little crow?”

Jon shook his head. “When I was a boy, I heard of traders from Ibben or the Summer Isles who did this. There were stories about pirates covered in ink and I know slaves in Volantis are forced to carry marks. I've even heard of some in Dorne who paint themselves. But it’s not done in the North.”

“Well, it’s done in the real north,” Tormund said, relaxing in the water.

Jon found one hand was hovering near Tormund’s arm. He wanted to reach out, touch, see what those marks felt like.

Though Tormund’s eyes were closed, he seemed to sense Jon’s curiosity. “Go ahead, it won't bite ya.”

Jon did, one finger gently tracing the complex lines. Tormund hummed, seemingly calmed by Jon’s touch. His skin was smooth, warm with the heat of the spring. Jon felt transfixed as he followed the same paths over and over.

“What does it mean?” he asked quietly.

“It’s a spell,” Tormund replied, voice echoing softly. “It’s meant to keep me from getting lost in storms and bad weather. It was the first mark they’d give us in our clan when I was a boy. As soon as you were old enough to go hunting alone, the wise woman would trace this on you.”

Jon hummed in acknowledgement. “Does it work?”

Tormund laughed a bit. “Well, I’ve never been lost while hunting, I’ll say that much. But it’s incomplete. It’s supposed to work together with a bunch of other spells and runes.”

The only light in the cave were the torches they’d brought as they’d entered. One was slowly dimming, and in the muted light Tormund’s voice seemed to grow quieter.

“When I was young, people in my clan used to get more marks as they aged.” His voice was soft, sad. “My father, my father was covered in them. He had runes on his fingers, spells on the soles of his feet, even some tiny little marks behind his ears. I don’t think I ever learned what those meant. I thought one day that would be me, that I’d be covered head to toe in spells and stories.”

Tormund paused, his breath caught, his eyes shone darkly in the thin orange light. 

Jon’s hand had stopped tracing. Instead, he rubbed soothing circles on Tormund’s shoulder.

“Then one day,” Tormund started, his voice oddly harsh. “One day the dead came into our camp. I’d heard the legends but I’d never seen them, not before that. They killed half of the camp that night. They killed the wise woman and her apprentice. They killed my father too.”

A weighted, terrible quiet settled over them.

“The survivors, we ran to another camp on the Antler River. The clan my mother had come from. They were a lot like us, spoke our language. But the holidays were different, some of the food wasn’t the same. And they didn’t mark their skin. It wasn't...”

Tormund trailed off and huffed, trying to keep back old tears. Jon put his arm around Tormund’s shoulder, and the bigger man leant into him.

Jon was struck, yet again, by how long the Free Folk had been running, been afraid. By just how much, how many, they’d lost. Jon had known of the White Walkers for, what, six maybe seven years? But Tormund had been running from them for most of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said softly.

Tormund shook his head. “It was a long time ago.”

They sat holding each other for a long moment, trying to find comfort in human touch and the feeling of the water rushing over skin.

“I’m just glad it’s done,” Tormund said suddenly. “So many times these last few years I thought it was over, that we would be gone. The last of the Free Folk. But now it’s done. The dead are gone. We can live our lives.”

“You will,” Jon said, certain. It felt odd to be the one giving comfort. But Tormund needed it, deserved it. More than anyone. And after the end of the world, the few of them left could not afford to be afraid of each other.

Jon spoke again, Tormund warm against him. “The Free Folk will rebuild the clans, will build new camps and new villages. They’ll hunt and farm and have children. Maybe we’ll even find someone who knows how to ink lines into your shoulders.”

Tormund sighed; Jon felt the rise and fall of his chest. “We will,” he agreed. “We’ll build something new.”

Part of Jon still wondered if he should return to Castle Black, live out the sentence he knew he deserved.

But in this spring with Tormund, skin on skin, it sounded beautiful. It sounded beautiful to build something new.

Jon turned and saw that Tormund was staring at him, an emotion Jon couldn’t quite name in his eyes. Jon was overwhelmed suddenly with the mad desire to kiss him. He didn't quite know where this came from; he had never felt this urge for a man before. Yet, he had never been so aware of the smoothness of a man’s skin and the color of his hair and the kindness in his eyes. This was _Tormund_, Tormund who stood by him, who comforted him, who was caring and strong and kind. 

Jon felt bold, too bold, as he brought a hand to Tormund’s cheek, a question in his eyes. Tormund nodded, and Jon moved forward.

The kiss was tender, gentle, warm. Jon felt overcome by the soft burr of Tormund’s beard, by the musky scent of his skin. A strong hand worked through Jon’s curls. The kiss felt over far too quickly.

They sat in contended silence, foreheads touching, hands on each other’s cheeks and shoulders. After a minute, Jon came back to himself, an apology tumbling from his lips.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why, I’ve never-”

Tormund chucked and put a finger to Jon’s lips. “Hush, little crow. We can talk about it tomorrow. Just sit with me a while, if you’d like.”

Jon felt something start to uncurl inside him, a sense of freedom he thought long dead surge in his heart.

They sat there, warmth enveloping them, Jon’s head on the inked lines at Tormund’s shoulder.

It felt like healing here, like home. Like something new.


	2. Chapter 2

More than ten months had passed since that night in the hot springs, and they were finally truly settling in on the banks of the Antler River.

Some of the small band of Free Folk who had chosen to stay here lived in this land once. Others were the remnants of clans wiped out. All of them were determined to make this place a home.

They had risen a new longhouse, were creating homes of turf and stone. They’d built pens for their animals and a new smokehouse and were starting construction on a small dock. The seasons were turning, surprisingly quickly, and soon they’d be able to farm the land. It felt, more and more, like a true village. Like a place where one could live a life.

Jon spent his days hammering and whittling and hunting and weaving. It was a kind of work he’d never done before, but he found it rewarding. He was carving out a space in the world for these people. For...for his clan.

It still felt odd to think of them like that. To think of himself not as an outsider, as a Crow simply biding his time until he returned to Castle Black, but as one of them. As a piece of whole. It felt unreal. But Jon had come to know the people who stayed here by name. He hunted with them and helped them build their homes and watched their children. They were part of each other.

And when Jon went on to his own home at night, Ghost at his side, Tormund was there to greet him. It also felt odd at times that Tormund was his, that they shared a hearth and shared a bed. That the clan, that Tormund’s family, accepted Jon without judgement. That this warm funny man, who Jon had once considered an enemy, was now in his life to stay. It was more, far more, than Jon deserved.

But he knew it was hard, sometimes, for Tormund to be here. It was ideal land; good hunting, fertile, close to the water. But these were the lands of Tormund’s youth, so close to the place where he’d lost most of his family. There were days when Tormund would stare distantly at the horizon, where he’d say nothing for entire evenings. And Jon, those days, returned the kindness and comfort Tormund had always given him. Wondered how he could lessen the pain.

One night they sat by the hearth, fire roaring, fermented goat’s milk warm in their bellies, as Tormund told Jon of times long past, of the camp he remembered from childhood, of people and places and traditions long gone. His eyes were far away, full of sorrow for a time that could never return. Jon rubbed at Tormund’s feet, his calves, his shoulders, trying to bring quiet comfort.

And Jon looked at the inked lines on Tormund’s shoulder, and decided to try to bring something back.

* * *

The next morning, Jon went to Ulelda. Ulelda was an elder woman with kind eyes and a deep knowledge of Free Folk magic. Ulelda knew how to heal and make moon teas, how to weave spells and mix herbs and listen to the weirwoods. She was not from Tormund's lands; before the White Walkers she had lived with a clan in the Haunted Forest. But Jon vaguely remembered a story of how she’d spent time by the Antler River in her youth, how she’d learned some of her skills there. If anyone knew how to tattoo skin, it would be her.

Ulelda smiled when Jon entered, welcomed him warmly, made him an earthy root tea. They chatted for a long while as Jon helped her skin freshly trapped rabbits. Her home smelled comforting, like furs and moss and yesterday’s stew.

Jon was struck, as he often was, by the difference between Ulelda and the other magic users he’d met. The Red Woman seemed purposefully mysterious, almost inhuman, impossible to understand. Bran was the same, and when Jon thought of the last words that had passed between them, his veins turned to ice. But with Ulelda, magic did not seem something otherwordly and horrible. Ulelda always explained exactly what she was doing, calmly and rationally. And she kept her magic simple, small. “I know my limits,” she often said. “Sorcery should be a suggestion, a whisper. You shouldn’t try to bend the world in half.”

They spent much of the day together, and soon the sun was casting long shadows in the sky. Jon finally spoke of the reason for his visit, and Ulelda grew thoughtful.

She had, as it turned out, learned the art of tattooing in her youth. She remembered how to make ink from wood ash, how to make tools that would force paint under skin, remembered the words that wove magic into the lines. She was confident that she could draw the runes of the First Men; she knew those as well as she knew her own name. But the spells of Tormund’s childhood clan...those were trickier. Half forgotten. “If I could only spark my memory, speak to some of those that had been there, I might be able to do it.”

Jon thanked her, and the conversation moved to other things. When Jon left, the sun was pink and low on the horizon.

* * *

Over the next few days, Jon had many conversations. He sought out elders who had lived in these lands years before. Some of them were coated in old, faded lines, and were happy to show them to Ulelda, revive this old tradition. Others remembered vividly tattoos held by loved ones and friends. Tormund’s sister Thyra was especially excited; she chatted with Ulelda for hours about the lines that had decorated her father’s chest.

Soon Ulelda had developed a collection of designs, was practicing making ink and tattooing on old deer hide to get her lines clean. Soon enough, she had declared herself ready. And Jon knew it was time to talk to Tormund.

* * *

They lay under their furs, naked, half asleep, Jon tracing Tormund’s tattoo over and over.

Jon had meant to say something all night, had been building himself to it. But suddenly he felt shy, worried he had overstepped some boundary.

“You’re quiet tonight, little wolf,” Tormund hummed. “You seem half here. I hope you aren’t growing bored with an old man?”

Jon smiled, leaned down, and kissed Tormund fondly, his hands lost in thick red hair.

“You aren’t old,” he said when he pulled away. “And if you’re pulling that already, I shudder to think what you’ll be like when you hit fifty.”

Tormund chuckled and pulled Jon close to his side. They spent long moments in content silence.

“I’m sorry, for being distant,” Jon said quietly.

“Does this have anything to do with whatever you’ve been plotting?”

Jon laughed into Tormund’s skin. “I should have known I could never keep anything from you.”

Tormund threaded his fingers with Jon’s. “This village isn’t big enough to keep secrets. I can feel everyone talking around me lately. Wondered for a time if I’d been chosen as clan fool.”

Jon snorted, “Well aye, you are that.” He shifted against Tormund, unsure how to continue.

Tormund’s thumb was stroking the back of Jon’s hand. “Just tell me, little wolf. Just tell me whatever mad thing you have planned.”

Jon sat up, ran an anxious hand through his ever longer hair, tried to find the words.

“I’ve been talking to Ulelda, and some of the others,” Jon began. “And she learned how to tattoo skin as a girl. She thinks she could make many of the spell marks of your old clan if...if that’s something you would want.”

Tormund sat up slowly, his blue eyes piercing into him. Jon worried again that he had made a mistake, done something to personal. But suddenly Tormund was kissing him fiercely and after a moment Jon could feel tears running down his face.

* * *

Tormund was sat shirtless in a chair by Ulelda as the made her tools ready.

“Now, I haven’t done this in years on something that wasn’t a carcass, Giantsbane. So do try not to move at all.”

Tormund snorted, seeming almost too nervous for speech.

“Have you decided what you want?” the old woman asked.

He nodded and motioned to her. She bent low, and he whispered something in her ear that Jon couldn’t hear.

Ulelda straightened and shook her head, a light smile at her lips. “You two with your secrets. You're too well matched. I have no idea how you managed to find each other.”

Jon let the confusion settle over him as Ulelda sat and began her work, not wanting to ruin whatever surprise Tormund had in store.

Tormund yelped and jumped as the tool bit into him.

“Gods boy, I barely touched you. Do I have to tie you down?”

“I forgot about the pain,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Well you’ve been through battles against death itself, a few pokes of a bone needle won’t kill you.”

Tormund was glaring a bit, but Jon bent down and took his hand. His eyes softened.

“Honestly, you’re a sickening pair,” Ulelda chuckled. She bent back over Tormund’s bare shoulder.

For near half an hour they sat there, Tormund squeezing Jon’s hand as a dark spiny shape of clean lines and triangles grew on Tormund’s shoulder.

Finally, Ulelda declared herself done, and stood back to admire her handiwork. Jon longed to run his fingers over the new shape, but the lines looked a bit raised and red.

“Am I allowed to know what this means now?” Jon chuckled.

Tormund smiled. “It’s a protection spell,” he said. “Protection for my home, for the ones I care about. For you.”

For a moment, Jon’s heart stopped in his chest. He pulled Tormund to his feet and kissed him, deaf to the light protestations of Ulelda in the background.

As they broke apart, Jon’s eyes found the new lines at Tormund’s shoulder. He laid a light, gentle hand over it. Tormund’s eyes were warm.

“It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this next park takes place after Tormund started teaching Jon his language, closer to the end of this series when they're no longer traveling and have settled somewhere.


	3. Chapter 3

After Tormund showed off his new art to the village, tattooing became something of a sudden trend. Elders who remembered the practice were overjoyed at its revival, and others were eager for a fresh tradition, something _theirs._ After having lost so much, everyone wanted something to mark their survival, to create something new.

The lines on Tormund’s chest multiplied in number near constantly, and he took great pride in showing them to Jon, explaining what they meant. Jon loved tracing them, with his fingers, with his tongue, and once they healed, with his teeth.

Soon tattoos were visible all over the village; on hands, on necks, even on faces. People admired each other’s new lines, spoke heavy praises of Ulelda’s work. They became a popular topic of conversation around bonfires and fishing poles.

But still, Jon’s skin was bare. He felt oddly hesitant.

He told others that he was simply waiting to make the right choice, that he was shy about the pain. But in truth, a voice in Jon’s head still whispered that he was an outsider, that he didn’t deserve these people, that this wouldn’t last.

Yet the longer he went without, the sadder Tormund seemed to grow.

He tried not to show it, tried to seem underbothered. But Jon could see worry growing at the edges of his eyes.

One night, as Jon sat by the fire, Tormund spoke quietly, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

“Are you happy here?”

Jon turned quickly, alarmed at the question. Alarmed at the tentative tenor of Tormund’s voice.

“Aye, I’m happy here.” He moved closer to Tormund, sat, put a calming hand at Tormund’s knee. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier anywhere.”

Tormund nodded, but doubt still lingered in his face.

Jon moved the hand to Tormund’s cheek. “Why?”

Tormund turned his eyes away. “Seems like you’re not fully here sometimes. Like you’re preparing to go away.” Tormund brought his eyes back to meet Jon’s gaze, his blue eyes piercing. “Not that I don’t know why. I know you’ve lost a lot. So have I. But I want you to know that if you want, I plan to stay with you as long as the gods let me.”

Jon sighed, dropping his hand. He pushed his hair out of his face, feeling guilty.

“I know. I mean it when I say that I’ve never been happier anywhere. This place, with you, feels more like home than anything I’ve had before. I just worry that this is all a dream, that someday the Crows will come to drag me back.”

Tormund drew Jon close. “Let them,” his voice rumbled. “I will _kill_ any Crow who tries to take you from me.”

Jon knew mention of the murder of his former brothers should disturb him, but Tomund’s passion put a smile to his lips.

“Aye, I know you would,” he answered. “I think now I might kill any Crow that tried to drag me away too.”

The words felt a bit shocking dropping from his mouth, and Jon meant them as half joking. But Jon had finally found his place, and he meant to stay there.

He’s Free Folk. And he's loved. Tormund has told him a hundred times, in caves and in springs and under starlight. He just needs let himself believe it.

Jon traced Tormund's cheekbone with his thumb, a bit lost in the blue of his eyes. 

_“Lemak ewei,”_ Jon whispered in the Antler River tongue, as though hearing the words in a Free Folk language would ground Tormund, convince him, remind him Jon was his. “_Lemak ewei, lemak ewei, lemak ewei._”

Tormund breathed out, low and heavy, and Jon was so close, so close to him. 

He kissed Tormund, rough, desperate, then went to bite at the freshly healed tattoos on his neck. Tormund moaned and brought his rough hands to Jon’s hips. Jon growled low as Tormund flipped him hard. He felt the wetness of oil and then Tormund pushed inside, and Jon pushed back, his hands fisted in Tormund’s hair. Jon felt unraveled, felt freedom, felt nothing at all like a man of the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

The very next morning Jon and Tormund went to Ulelda. She played at being cross with them for giving her so much new work, and they in apology agreed to help her with cooking and repairs and spell preparations.

Jon prepared to get two different designs inked onto his skin. The first was a mirror of the first tattoo Ulelda had given Tormund; a spell for the protection of home and loved ones. The other was the new name Tormund had given him all those months ago, Wolfhearted, in the runes of the First Men. It would not technically be a spell; Ulelda could not weave magic into a name. But Jon reeled at the idea of letters older than the Free Folk themselves on his skin, of the name Tormund gave him written there forever.

The pain of Ulelda’s tool was not nearly as bad as Tormund made it out to be, and soon Jon stood, admiring the work. The spell matching Tormund’s sat at his shoulder and a thick band of runes circled around his bicep.

He ran his fingers over the lines. No matter where he went, even if the Crows tried to bring him back to punishment, these lines would mark him. Would mark him as Free Folk. Would mark him as _Tormund’s._

Jon looked up at Tormund. His eyes were full, were fierce, and Jon felt a wild sort of pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Lemak ewei” - "I love you."


	4. Chapter 4

The weather continued to warm, faster than any of them expected. Soon there were visitors sailing up the river in a small skiff; the people resettling Hardhome. They had fish to trade for furs and spoke about rebuilding and any news that had reached their ears. Most interestingly, they spoke about a hopeful rumor; a group of Nightrunners who had hidden, deep in the caves, and survived.

It sent a shot of excitement through the camp. It seemed so few beyond the Wall had survived the Long Night, any word of more made them feel a step closer to rebuilding, to the days of old.

Tormund and a few others decided to form a party and look for these Nightrunners, offer them aid. After all, they were not far from old Nightrunner territory. Jon wanted to join, and initially Tormund agreed. But as they spoke that night, they realized too many of the village fighters were going. So many of them hoped to find lost friends, lost family. Jon couldn’t deny them that. Even if the thought of being separated from Tormund made something horrible ache in his chest. So many, _so many_ in his life had left, never to return.

“You better come back to me,” Jon whispered, head laying on Tormund’s bare chest.

Tormund tipped Jon’s head up to his own. “The gods themselves couldn’t keep me away.” They kissed hungrily, and Jon tried to quiet the fear in his heart.

* * *

After Tormund left, Jon found himself a bit adrift. He spent his days busying himself with work in the house and his nights curled around Ghost.

But others started to come to him, visit him at home, draw him out. He was still unused to it, how people here looked out for each other so intently.

Tormund’s daughters were frequent visitors. Munda, his youngest, always begged for stories, and Jon found himself becoming a sharper storyteller under her critcial ears. The elder daughter, Alva, always asked Jon to take her hunting, and they spent most mornings tracking deer through the snow.

Jon also became friends with their mother, Runa. Jon had been shy of her, always worried, despite Tormund’s assurances, things would be awkward between them. But Runa was kind, had long moved on to another romance, saw Tormund now mostly as a good friend and partner in raising their girls. Jon found they had much in common, and he and Runa spent many mornings chatting or teaching each other combat styles.

Jon went fishing with some of the elders, was taught an old Hornfoot game of chance by Eluf, improved his cooking with Halvor. He got to know Tormund’s sister better, and found himself almost alarmed at how similar the two were. He helped settle village disagreements and disputes. Soon, he found himself with a regular band to hunt with, found himself entertaining all the village children with stories by the bonfire at night.

He still missed Tormund, like a constant ache, but he was needed here, had purpose here, felt whole.

And many evenings, he went to Ulelda.

They would talk for hours as she inked new lines on his skin. Sometimes the conversation was idle, about the hunt and the strangely turning seasons. Other times, it was serious. They’d talk of magic, of death, of darkness, of resurrection. Jon told her his worries about Bran, of his otherness, of the things he’d said, the things he seemed to know. She told Jon what she knew of weirwoods and greenseers and ravens and gods. After that conversation, she put several special lines on Jon’s back, lines of protection from unwanted eyes.

She’d often give Jon tattoos based on their conversations. After he spoke of nightmares, she inked a spell to give Jon sweet dreams, and finally sleep seemed quieter. He spoke of Ghost, she gave him a wolf rune that seemed to buzz on his skin. And when he spoke of Tormund, Tormund, _Tormund_, she wrote love runes and asymmetric spells and at night Jon could practically smell Tormund’s furs.

Jon almost not realize how many tattoos he had collected. When Ulelda asked to put runes on his hands, he nearly hesitated, worried about the pain, but agreed quickly when she showed him the designs. Soon there was a tattoo curving up the side of Jon's neck, far higher than any Westerosi collar would cover. She even linked lines curling low on Jon’s hips and lower. Jon didn’t realize until the tattoo was nearly done that only a year before, he’d been embarrassed to show even naked glimpses of himself to the Free Folk.

“Hmm,” Ulelda said as she finished the line, humor in her voice. “I see what he means. Not the biggest I’ve seen.”

Jon laughed, then stretched lazily. “He’s spreading that around is he? Well, next time you see Tormund, tell him it’s not about size, it’s how you use it.”

Ulelda smiled. “Quite right, boy. Now, don’t move, I’ll start on the other side.”

One night Jon looked down at himself, at all the new images littering his skin. They should have made his body felt foreign, odd. But these lines made his body feel more like _his_. Even the angry red scars seemed lighter, seemed finally to be fading to white, in contrast with these bold, blue-black lines.

These were _his._ These tattoos were a result of choices _he_ had made. He’d chosen to get tattoos inked on his skin. He’d chosen to ask Ulelda if she knew how to do this, had helped bring this practice back to life. He’d chosen to settle here, with these people. He’d chosen to turn his back on the Nights Watch, chosen to never be a Crow again, chosen to be free.

He’d chosen to be with Tormund.

Jon ached for his return, ached to show Tormund the new ink on his body, ached to fall into his arms.

And the next morning, word came that Tormund was riding home.

* * *

A flurry of excitement hit the village when the band returned. Jon rushed out to meet them, but paused to grab a scarf for his neck, mittens for his hands. It was a touch too warm for these things, but Jon wanted Tormund to be surprised.

As he rushed from the house, part of him couldn’t believe Tormund was truly home. So many people in his life had simply vanished when they left for the-

A happy ginger blur ran into Jon and swept him into strong arms. When Jon recovered, he laughed a bit.

“Put me down and let me actually get a look at you!”

Tormund did, and they stared at each other, eyes shining.

“My little wolf,” Tormund breathed happily, and suddenly Jon was kissing him, hungrily, making up for every second they’d lost.

After a long moment, Tormund broke away. “Let me tie up the horse,” he breathed out. Jon let him go, and less than five minutes later they were back in each other’s arms, kissing, touching, blind to the glances of those around them as they pulled each other home.

Jon had barely shut the door when Tormund began peeling his clothes off, hurriedly untying his boots and getting tangled in his breeches. He was nearly done when he noticed Jon was still dressed.

“Well come on, little wolf, thought we were rushing back here for a reason.”

Jon smiled and took in the sight of Tormund. Muscled chest, strong legs, that ridiculous cock buried in red hair. Beautiful fierce lines, old and new. Jon kissed Tormund, long and slow, and stepped back into the bare firelight.

He took off his mittens, and Tormund drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the runes on Jon’s hands. He took off his scarf and Tormund’s eyes darted to the sharp visible lines at Jon’s neck. Jon slowly, slowly, stripped out of his fur coats and breeches, and Tormund drank in the sight of Jon. Naked and covered in spells and runes and lines that curved around his muscles, around his chest, around his hips.

Tormund walked over to Jon, slowly, and took his hands. Stared at Jon’s hands for a long moment.

Jon knew why. Those hands would not be covered in the south. If any from the south saw them, Jon would be labeled as other, as a _Wildling_. These hands truly marked Jon as one of them, marked him as free.

Tormund began to run his fingers over the lines on Jon’s chest, sank to his knees and traced over the lines on Jon’s hips.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispered. He looked up at Jon, love in his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Jon.”

Tormund’s hands drew Jon closer, and he was half hard already but then Tormund looked up at him with a question in his eyes and Jon’s breath stuttered.

_Oh, it had been so long._

Jon nodded, and Tormund took him into his mouth.

For a long moment, he was lost in the pleasure of Tormund, of his tongue as his lips and the sheer power of him. Of having this warrior, this giant man, on his knees in front of him. Of knowing they belonged to each other in every way that mattered.

Jon felt an orgasm building and pulled away. He didn’t want to come yet, not until Tormund was inside him.

He knelt down and kissed Tormund, kissed those strong, biting bruising lips, and then those lips moved to nip at the tattoos on Jon’s neck, his collarbone, his shoulders. Jon felt rough hands on his buttocks and breathed yeses into Tomund’s ears. And then Tormund was inside him, and Jon felt blinded by pleasure and heat and perfection, and they moved together, quickly, roughly, until they were both spent and lay lazy in their furs.

* * *

Later, Tormund ran his hands over Jon’s tattoos, teasing and occasionally tickling when it suited him. Jon had never felt so relaxed.

“And what is this one? Protection against southern twats?”

Jon laughed, “In a manner of speaking. It’s protection against unwanted enemies.”

“Versus enemies you want?” Tormund asked, eyebrows raised.

“Well sometimes you meet an enemy and it turns out well. Look at us.”

Tormund hummed. “I don’t know that you were important enough to be my enemy.”

Jon sat up, incredulous.

Tormund grinned. “Well, you were Lord Commander and King and all that, but we never faced each other directly in battle. If we had, you’d be dead, little wolf.”

Jon lay back again, smile at his lips. “I'd take that bet, but I'd rather not embarrass you.”

Tormund put his head to Jon’s shoulder and huffed. “As if you could.”

They lay in silence, Tormund still tracing the tattoos with his fingers.

“They suit you,” he says finally. “This all suits you.”

And suddenly Jon was overcome, overcome with having found a people, a home, someone to spend a life with. Overcome that finally, finally, he’s found his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So most of the tattoo designs I was thinking of here are runes or Icelandic staves. If you're curious, habbanerotattoo on Instagram does really beautiful work like this!
> 
> The tattoos would be dark blue because lots of ancient tattoo ink was made of wood ash, which generally comes out dark blue.


End file.
